


No Shame November

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, No shame november, See chapters for warnings, prompts from tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For No Shame November, I opened my inbox on Tumblr to all the prompts people felt too ashamed to ask for or create usually - here is a range of works that resulted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finrod/Beor, roleplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Finrod/Beor, roleplaying each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Okay, after initially having a hard time figuring out where to go with this one, this got super silly and fluffy and ridiculous. I LOVE THIS SHIP GAWD  
> 1\. Finrod and Beor, clothing exchange. (That’s like roleplaying, right?)

Finrod was chuckling heartily, and Bëor glared at him, despite the fact that he himself was having trouble keeping a straight face.

“Shut up, Elf,” he growled, fumbling in the wardrobe. “This was your idea.”

“Yes, well,” Finrod recovered himself enough to take another long draught of wine, “I have been drinking. You shouldn’t listen to me.”

“Too late now, the plan is in motion.” Bëor put his hands on his hips and eyed a long white robe. “I don’t think white is my color.”

“You can pull anything off,” said Finrod fondly, curling up in an armchair to watch him.

“Yes, but can I put it on?” Bëor grabbed a blue tunic as well and turned to hold them up before himself, staggering only slightly; truth be told, he’d had rather a lot of wine himself. He was naked but for his small clothes and the hose he had attempted to pull on from Finrod’s bureau, the sight of which had caused Finrod’s collapse from laughter. The hose trailed several inches too long off the ends of his feet but barely made it over his knees. “Does this tunic go with this robe?”

Finrod squinted critically, swirling the wine in his glass. “I mean, I would likely not wear them together because one is winter weight and one is a summer piece, but the colors go well enough.”

“Right.” Bëor kicked off the hose as a lost cause, and started to pull the tunic over his head. “It’s your turn, you know,” he said, muffled, from under the linen.

Finrod, who was wrapped in nothing but a sheet, draped his legs over the arm of the chair. “Mmm, but I’m so comfortable like this.”

“ _You_  are the one who suggested we swap clothes.”

“It was simply a diversion to get you out of them.” But Finrod sighed and swung his feet to the floor. “Very well, let us see what I have to deal with here.” He picked up Bëor’s trousers and examined them critically. “Why is the backside padded?”

“To make my arse look more fetching.” Bëor poked his head through the top of the tunic and struggled to pull it over his shoulders. “No, ‘tis for comfort on horseback, and protection against the damp when sitting on rain-sodden logs and the like. It is practical.”

Finrod poked the seat of the trousers again. “Fascinating.” He slipped his long legs into the pants and hauled them up, only to have them fall down as soon as he stood.

“Belt,” grunted Bëor, pointing. He had given up on the tunic, which had made it over his chest but refused to go any further, and so his broad, furred belly remained exposed. “This is not working.”

Finrod laughed merrily, belting the loose trousers around his slender waist, his legs sticking bare from the pant legs. “Try the robe, it at least opens through the front.”

Bëor busied himself with the long, silken white robe, draping it over his shoulders and wrapping it around himself. The water-smooth feeling of the material was familiar from the many times he had pushed it aside to get at Finrod’s hot, endlessly tempting bare skin, but wearing it himself was a novelty. He fussed with the ties for a while before looking up to see Finrod, who was positively swimming in Bëor’s heavy wool sweater and who looked utterly delighted.

Bëor grinned. “Not what you are accustomed to, eh, my lord?”

“This is wonderful,” said Finrod rapturously, and sank back into the chair, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “I am so  _warm_.”

Bëor tossed the sash of the robe over his shoulder majestically, and attempted a haughty look. “And I am so elegant.”

“Thou art.” Finrod smiled at him, all but glowing with happiness.

“And you, my vassal,” said Bëor, trying to sweep across the room, and tripping slightly over his hem. “You are most… rustic and charming.”

“Aye,” said Finrod, lowering and roughening his voice. “Now come here, my lord.” He reached out as soon as Bëor was within reach, and wrapped a surprisingly strong hand around Bëor’s wrist. He pulled Bëor down into his lap, nuzzling against Bëor’s throat. “Come here and let me taste you,” he growled, dragging his tongue across Bëor’s skin, and Bëor closed his eyes and let his neck arch back under Finrod’s touch.

The chair quickly became insufficient for their purposes, and so they moved to the bed, flushed with amusement and tripping over their ill-fitting clothes. Finrod pressed Bëor down into the mattress and bit at him, vengeful and laughing, when Bëor attempted a courtly affectation, and then all dissolved into fumbling caresses and breathless whispers as Finrod settled between Bëor’s thighs and called him ‘lord’.

Some time later, Bëor pulled himself out of the bed, naked now, and looked around at the disordered room as he dragged a hand through his tangled hair. The pleasing buzz from the wine was fading, and he was left with a sense of satisfied exhaustion.

“Hand me my trousers,” he said, reaching down to pick an unstoppered vial that had fallen off the bedside table and setting it upright. He looked back over his shoulder, but Finrod was curled tightly into the blankets, unmoving. “Beloved lord of mine, unless you wish me to wander the corridors nude, you must hand me my clothing back now.”

“No,” said Finrod indistinctly.

“Dear one. Beauty. Pernicious fiend. My trousers.”

“Mmm. Request denied.”

Bëor sighed. “My tunic, then? My outer layer?”

“The sweater? Never. It’s mine now.”

“Sweet prince,” said Bëor, rubbing his temples. “Would you have me scar your subjects by inflicting upon them the sight of my bare and hairy self?”

“They could use a shaking up.” Finrod smiled angelically from the pillows. “I am not relinquishing the sweater.”

“What then shall I wear?”

Finrod pointed a toe, and Bëor wrapped himself in white silk once again as Finrod laughed from the bed and called him ‘My lord’ for the rest of the night. 


	2. Maedhros/Fingon, Piercing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Fingon/Maedhros piercing fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I have a soft spot for [my first fic ever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1850629) (in which Mae get pierced), so this is kind of…a continuation. I don’t know enough about piercing practices to make this kinky, so I hope that ‘a lot shippy and a bit sexy’ will suit ;)

It was a familiar enough scene; Maitimo reclining on the balcony off his room, his back to the warm white stone of the railing, and a friendly and welcome weight astride his lap. Findekáno leaned back against Maitimo’s knees and studied him, tracing the lines of his lips, his cheekbones, and his jawline with an intent finger, as an artist might trace out a canvas.

“Are you certain you’re not interested in something else?” he asked, his tone wheedling. His thumb brushed over Maedhros’ lower lip, and his eyes shone. “You have such a beautiful mouth, just think how it would look with a touch of gold…here.” He pressed the pad of his finger to Maitimo’s lip, and Maitimo rolled his eyes.

“How often do I have to tell you that my father would kill me?”

“Bah, you are grown and your own man! He cannot regulate what you put on your body.”

“No, but I live in his house and he can make every mealtime a living torture.”

“This is fair,” said Findekáno, after some contemplation. “I have eaten dinner with your father, and I fully believe in his ability to turn a meal into the torments of Utumno.”

“Watch how you go criticizing my father, only I get to do that.”

“I am but one weak Elf,” said Findekáno, reaching back for the velvet wrapped needles he had brought with him. “I don’t know if I have that much control.” He laughed as Maitimo punished him for his blasphemy with rough kisses, tipping his head so that Maitimo could mouth at the jewelry that lined his ears.

“I think that you get these,” whispered Maitimo, as Findekáno shivered, “because every time the wind blows and sets your adornments swinging, it sparks arousal.” He nipped at Findekáno’s earlobes. “You sensualist.”

“My ears are one of my many weaknesses,” said Findekáno, pushing Maitimo back far enough that he could study his face again. “But you know my titillation – and my adornment – is not limited to above the neck.” He pulled off his tunic as he spoke, and Maitimo’s eyes fell avidly to the adornments to which Findekáno alluded; the gold bars drawn tight against smooth brown skin, just at his eye level now, and if he leaned forward and closed his mouth over one, and then the other –

“Not now,” said Findekáno, breathlessly, as Maitimo nuzzled against his breast. “We have work to do. On  _you_.”

“Oh, very well.” Maitimo sighed and settled back, turning his head obediently so that Findekáno could brush the hair behind his ear. A gold earring with an amber drop already shone in the lobe, but now Findekáno focused his attention on the point of Maitimo’s ear, running his fingers lightly over the cartilage.

“Here, you said?”

“Aye.”

“It will look fair indeed, especially if I give you a chain to run from it to the one below,” said Findekáno, dousing some cotton with a potent smelling liquid and dabbing at the area in question. “I mean, not as fair as the chains  _I_  sometimes wear, but then, you have nothing that interesting yet, nor that far…below.”

“Stop distracting me,” said Maitimo, swallowing hard. “I am trying to brace myself for being stabbed and you are making me think of –  _ow_!”

Findekáno had given him no warning, wielding his needle swiftly through the cartilage of Maitimo’s upper ear. “Hush. You tense too much when you brace for it, so I thought I’d move quickly. Don’t give me that look, I promise you are familiar with this technique. And hold still, I need to put the earring in.”

Maitimo held obediently still as Findekáno finished his work, and then turned his head to look up at his cousin when Findekáno finally patted his cheek.

“You were very brave,” he murmured, a laugh hidden in his voice as he held up a mirror for Maitimo to examine himself. “Most stalwart as I pricked you – ”

“Oh, shut up.” Maitimo pushed the mirror aside and wrapped his arms around Findekáno’s waist. He kissed him, his tongue dragging lazily along Findekáno’s lips, and exploring his mouth. Findekáno groaned softly and let Maitimo kiss him thoroughly. Maitimo relinquished his mouth and then set to work kissing his ears again, letting his tongue play around the spots that made Findekáno gasp and press forward against him.

“Hmm,” said Maitimo, thoughtfully, as he pulled away and licked his lips. “The lip, as I said, would be too obvious, but…” His eyes sparkled. “There are other things that could prove  _titillating_ , I imagine, especially if plied against you. What do you know about piercing the tongue?”


	3. Fingon/Finrod/Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Fingon/Maedhros/Finrod (canon verse). The more they have to kiss/blow Finrod to shut him up, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. In which Fingon is too talented for discretion and Maedhros has his hands full dealing with the fallout (and Finrod is a screamer.) Fairly obvious warnings for threeway sex.

Maitimo raised his head from Findaráto’s neck, which he had been busy kissing, and looked down at Findekáno in amused exasperation. “Honestly, Finno, you’re going to get us walked in on.”

Findekáno didn’t reply, his mouth otherwise occupied.

Maitimo sighed, but his eyes were sparkling. “It figures that the only time you’re quiet during lovemaking is when you’re making someone else – ”

At that moment, Findaráto cried out again, his back arching, and his fingers clutching at Maitimo’s thigh. Maitimo winced and wrapped a hand over Findaráto’s mouth. “Hush, my beauty,” he whispered. “I know he is very, very good at what he does, but do you truly wish to have the whole household know what we are doing?”

“I – I am sorry,” Findaráto broke off with a slight whimper as Findekáno dragged his tongue down Findaráto’s dripping length. “It should not…should not come as a surprise…Oh, oh, Findekáno! I always knew our cousin was talented in many ways, but I was not prepared – Eru, have mercy!” His voice rose again and Maitimo clapped a hand back over his mouth, even as the other stroked soothingly through Findaráto’s hair.

“Findekáno,” murmured Maitimo. “You know I find you endlessly impressive – not to mention arousing – but you have tortured him for nearly an hour now, and I can only think you are just showing off at this point. Finish him quick or all of Tirion shall know what the heirs to the house of Finwë do with their free time.”

Findekáno’s blue eyes twinkled mischievously up at them both, but he pulled back long enough to say, “In that case, you had better stifle him now, beloved,” before ducking his head and swallowing Findaráto’s length to the base.

Just in time, Maitimo covered Findaráto’s mouth with his own, swallowing his loud cry in a deep kiss.

 

* * *

 

 

Down the hall, Tyelkormo looked up from the game of cards he was playing with Irissë. “Varda’s tits, it’s about time. I wondered how long they were going to keep him going.”

Irissë shook her head. “This is why I keep wax plugs by my bed, else I would never get any sleep.”

Tyelkormo was still listening. “Your brother is hardly my type, but I am beginning to be impressed by his endurance and talent…”

Irissë kicked him under the table. “Don’t even think about it, rogue.”


	4. Aredhel as Celebrimbor's mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Aredhel as Celebrimbor's mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. This was a totally fascinating prompt, and it made me try and consider how my interpretations of these characters might still hold up even with this pairing I hadn’t considered. THEN I GOT REALLY INTO IT.  
> 1\. And…ok, well a bit of my bias trickled over. To start, I know birth control is not supposed to be a thing for elves – intentional conception and all that – but I’ve never bought it. Hence: an accidental pregnancy.   
> 2\. Also: allusions to Aredhel/Curufin/Celegorm, WHOOPS. I can’t help it, I’ve shipped Celegorm/Aredhel and Celegorm/Curufin, but never Curufin/Aredhel, so I couldn’t resist making them overlap! This pretty solidly became a part of indulging my id, too.

Curufinwë was pacing, rubbing at his forehead. “This is absurd. I didn’t even think this was a possibility.”

Irissë made a face. “Surely even you aren’t that naïve, Curvo. Did your parents never treat you to the facts of life?”

Curufinwë whirled on her, his face reddening. “Of course they did! I am aware of the mechanisms, but it isn’t  _supposed_  to be a problem.”

“Did you buy into that rubbish they trot out about conception only happening when the child is desired?” snarled Irissë. “Allow me to let you into a secret, Curvo – babies only happening when they are wanted is achieved with careful timing, powerful herbs, and  _knowing when to pull out_.”

“So you lay this on me? What about those powerful herbs?” hissed Curufinwë, getting close to her. “I thought you had it under control!”

“They’re not fool-proof, idiot, nothing is! Aren’t you supposed to be a scientist, don’t you know these things?”

“Careful, you two,” said Tyelkormo, who was watching from the bed where he’d been sprawled, listening. “You get any more heated and we’ll end up in the same situation that got you into this.” He grinned. “You always get the most hot and bothered when you’re yelling at each other.”

They both turned on him. “You!”

“This is  _your_  fault.”

“This was  _your_  idea.”

Tyelkormo looked taken aback. “Excuse me? I beg your pardon, but I wasn’t even in the right  _vicinity_  at the time of said conception, as you should both remember.” He looked up at their angry faces. “Remember? You may not have been able to see me at the time, Curvo, though I’m sure my position was clear to you, and Irissë could almost certainly see me over your shoulder, and – ”

“Shut up, shut up, shut  _up_.” Curufinwë looked like he was going to throw something at his brother. “It was your idea, that night, and it was your moonshine. Otherwise my reflexes would have been better.”

“Right!” Irissë folded her arms. “And you were the one who encouraged us to move from perfectly safe activities that could in no way have resulted in a child, to – ”

“Oh, you both wanted it.” Tyelkormo rolled his eyes. “I saw how you’d been looking at each other. I know that look on  _both_  of you. You would have locked groins with or without my encouragement.”

Irissë started to snarl something, but Curufinwë held up a hand, once more rubbing at his temples with exhausted fingers. “Fine, enough. _Enough_ , stop yelling, Irissë.”

“Stop yelling?” Irissë jabbed towards her stomach. “I’m carrying a parasite you put in me!”

“Don’t refer thusly to a future scion of the house of Fëanáro,” said Curufinwë coolly.

Irissë gave a humorless laugh. “A scion of the house of  _Nolofinwë_ , fool. As if you could claim this as yours without bringing our family crashing down around us.”

Curufinwë clenched his jaw. “I have long wanted to be able to give my father a grandchild and heir.”

“You’ll just have to try again, friend, he won’t accept this one.” Irissë cast herself down on a chair, looking exhausted. “What will my mother say? I can cover for you, but I cannot cover for myself.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Tyelkormo quietly. He got up and crossed the room, kneeling before Irissë to lay a comforting hand on her knee. He beckoned to Curufinwë, who reluctantly crossed to lean against the chair as well. He perched himself on the armrest, and almost absently, Irissë laid her head against his breast.

Tyelkormo looked up at them both, his face uncharacteristically serious. “I propose,” he said, “that we three announce a trip into the wilds – a long Hunt, one that might take up to a year. We outfit ourselves accordingly, prepare our families, and seek the wildfolk. Oromë’s people keep secrets better than any, and know well the ways of healing and care for childbirth.” He looked at Irissë. “The Huntresses will help you – and us.”

“And then,” said Curufinwë, who was listening intently, “when we return with a child?”

“You want an heir,” said Irissë, gazing up at Curufinwë. “I do not. You should claim it as yours.”

Curufinwë breathed out, thinking. “We can say that its mother was one of the hunterfolk, or a maiden we encountered…perhaps she died in childbirth, or in the hunt; perhaps she was simply unwilling to return with us, or to subject her child to a rough life in the wilds – and so I brought my child back with me. Motherless, though, and bastard born…”

“We could claim a forest wedding,” said Tyelkormo. “Officiated by the Hunstman of the Valar, I do not think even father could object. And,” he glanced quickly at his brother, “if you were wed to a mysterious huntress, father could not press you to marry another…”

“But I would still have an heir.”

“Yes. An heir with a devoted aunt,” said Tyelkormo, squeezing Irissë’s hand. “And uncle, of course.”

Curufinwë looked at Irissë too, his hand settling on her shoulder. “It is a mad plan, for all I can almost see it working. But I will do none of it without your full agreement and comfort.” He bent and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. “I know my temper got the best of me earlier, but this is a mutual responsibility, and I know the burden rests heaviest on you. What say you, my lady?”

Irissë took Curufinwë’s hand, and laid a kiss to the back of it. “I say yea, my lord. It can go wrong in innumerable ways, and I shall have certain requirements that I will need your promise on, but,” her eyes sparkled, “I have always liked mad ventures. When do we set out?”

  
  



	5. Maeglin and Celebrimbor, reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Tyelpe and Maeglin meeting after leaving Mandos and bonding over daddy-issues, crushes on married relatives, doom and dwarwes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I think I got everything but the Dwarves at least alluded to ;)  
> 1\. Not shippy, just silly.

“Yes,” said Maeglin loudly, to pre-empt the inevitable question. “I am the traitor of Gondolin. Yes, the son of the Dark Elf who killed my mother while trying to kill me. Yes, that  _would_  fuck a person up. Yes, apparently I was allowed out of the Halls. Yes, it’s true, I tried to kill a child and marry my cousin, yes, it was – ”

“I know,” said the stranger calmly. “I’ve heard the stories.”

Maeglin paused, unsettled by this disruption of his flow. “Right. Well. All true. I figured that’s why you were staring at me. Who are you?”

“I’m your,” the stranger thought for a moment. “Second cousin. Is that right? Once removed, maybe. No, that’s not it. Ah, well, let’s just call it ‘a relative’. Celebrimbor.” He smiled, pleasantly.

“Celebrimbor.” Maeglin tried to think why the name rang a bell, searching through memories from his past life and from stories he’d heard since being reborn. “Oh.  _Oh_. You’re – ”

“The son of a son of Fëanor. Doom, Oaths, and all that. Yes, I broke with my father, but it’s all right now, we have dinner sometimes. Being disinherited only lasts one lifetime, apparently. Yes, I helped forge the rings of power. Yes, I was taken in by the false Annatar, and yes, my actions led to the creation of the One Ring and all the glorious fall out.” He looked skyward, as if doing inventory. “Oh, and the banner stuff is true too. Please don’t ask for details.”

“Wasn’t going to,” said Maeglin, rubbing an unconscious hand over his arm.

They had started, almost without realizing it, to stroll along together down the cobbled street, and for once, Maeglin ignored the sideways glances he got. Celebrimbor had his hands in his pockets, and he was whistling, slightly off key. A tall, blonde Vanya passed them and both of them averted their eyes. Celebrimbor shook his head and looked at Maeglin, and for a moment, an understanding passed between them. Then Celebrimbor grinned and kept walking.

“So Sauron, huh? You know what I’m talking about. Real piece of work, right?”

“Oh,” said Maeglin, “don’t even get me started…”


	6. Maedhros/Maglor, darkfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Maedhros/Maglor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I am REALLY SORRY about this one. I have considered Maedhros/Maglor before, though I find it hard to parse out my headcanons for them, but I agree that especially towards the end they would be horribly codependent on each other. What I end up with is even darker than Celegorm/Curufin, especially at the stage I am writing it (kind of a follow-up to my Halloween fic, so post-Sirion). Warnings for incest, implied drug-use, and sex that no one really enjoys. This is all kinds of fucked up.

Maedhros was before the window in his usual chair, his eyes the only part of him that moved as Maglor drifted down the hallway towards him.

“Hello,” whispered Maglor. “Hello, hello.”

Maedhros barely acknowledged him. “The children are in their room for the night.”

Maglor tilted his head to the side, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They’re terrified. They hate us.”

“Beautiful,” murmured Maglor, as if not hearing, and knelt before his brother. He looked up at him with solicitous and still lovely grey eyes, and Maedhros let a heavy hand rest on his brother’s head. “Have you taken your dose yet?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for – ”

“Of course.”

Maedhros held still, patient and silent as Maglor administered the dose, and then he closed his eyes, leaning back. “ _Ahh_.” He let out a heavy breath, and Maglor smiled, his long fingers stroking over Maedhros’ thighs.

“Is that better, brother mine?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Maedhros opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Outside the wind howled. “It’s always better.” His fingers curled into Maglor’s hair, and Maglor leaned into his touch. He felt Maedhros go loose against him, the hard tension leaving his body, and very carefully he pulled the dagger from Maedhros’ belt, and the flask from his waist, laying them both out of reach. The he reached up and began to undo the laces of Maedhros’ breeches.

“Maglor.”

“Makalaurë,” said Maglor, his voice sweet and lilting. “I so prefer those syllables.”

“Makalaurë,” rasped Maedhros, and then Maglor bent his head and took Maedhros’ flaccid length into his mouth.

He hummed as he sucked his brother off, a tune from their childhood, a song that used to be sung for the spring planting and which was now long lost to the ages. Maedhros ignored the tune, but his battered fingers tightened in Maglor’s dark hair. His face hidden as he bent over Maedhros’ lap, Maglor’s shining curls fell over Maedhros’ bunched up breeches, and Maedhros alternated between pulling at them and stroking them gently, and when he came, a bitter burst down Maglor’s throat, the name he said held none of the syllables Maglor preferred.

Maedhros slumped back in his chair as Maglor wiped his mouth delicately and started to pull Maedhros’ beeches down the rest of the way. Maedhros let his head fall back, his eyes half closing as the wind howled on, and when Maglor pressed into him, the name he heard whispered was, “Maitimo.”

Maedhros shut his eyes and let the darkness close in, while down the hall the children wept.


End file.
